T'inquiete, je gere (Don't worry, I've got it)
by xahra99
Summary: Altair is an undercover cop in the lawless District 13 who has to fight a shadowy organisation known as the Templars. Fortunately, he has friends. Unfortunately, he has enemies as well. Complete.


T'inquiète, je gère.

(Don't worry, I've got it.)

An Assassin's Creed/District 13 crossover by xahra99

Altaïr runs.

The soles of his shoes slam onto concrete with a steady thud, blending like music with the background noise of _Banlieue_ 13. The streets are noisy-they're always noisy-and nobody hears Altaïr pass amid the snap and crackle of fires, the cries and the screams.

He follows de Sable's route as closely as he can, cutting a straight line across the _banlieue_ from west to east through a Lego cityscape built from blocks the colour of dirty snow and encircled by a wall of razor-wire. The buildings are hell to live in but easy to climb. Altaïr makes good time, but the sky above his head is already the same shade as the stained tarmac and darkening by the second.

A gunshot cracks a few streets over to Altaïr's left. Altaïr ignores the sound, having long ceased to bother about bullets unless the guns are aimed at him.

He leaps from the second floor of a parking garage, hits the floor and rolls, narrowly missing a striped awning. The bazaar marks the edge of the _quartier arabe_, half slum, half souk, where gang Les Sarrasins holds sway and the call to prayer echoes from the concrete minarets of skyscrapers with names like Jérusalem, Acre and Damas.

Altaïr picks himself up and slinks away amongst the stalls. Nobody notices him. A few steps and he's away, blending in well enough with the district's denizens that nobody thinks to question his sudden arrival. There are enough Syrian immigrants mixed in with the _Maghrebis_ of the Arabic quarter for Altaïr to pass unnoticed. His clothes, a white hoodie and grey track pants, are carefully nondescript. His gun is well hidden. There's nothing about him that says _cop_.

It's a good job. Salah-ad-din's henchmen are on edge. The recent incursions of Les Croisés, the largest skinhead gang in the _banlieue_, into Sarrasin territory have turned the district into a war zone. The gang's latest acquisition is plain for all to see. Giant red crosses cover every side of the tower block called Arsouf, although the awnings of the market stalls cluster together like they're trying to block it out.

Robert's trail skirts Sarrasin territory, heading for the skyscraper and the safety of Les Croisés land. Altaïr does not need to hide. He cuts straight across the district, taking the fastest route he can. His path is a labyrinth of balconies, fire escapes and half-open windows, and it ends with a narrow entrance to an air duct just wide enough for Altaïr to enter.

It's not the first time he's had cause to be thankful for his training as one of Général al Mualim's elites, the so-called Assassins. There is no official police presence within _Banlieue _13, so Altaïr and his brotherhood of undercover officers, informers and spies wage war in secret, cleaning up the drug dealers and pimps, murderers and thieves that are an unpleasant fact of life within the _banlieue_. But it's impossible to live in the ghetto without breaking some law or another, and Altaïr has had to learn how to choose his prey carefully. De Sable is a worthy opponent; Al Mualim's arch-enemy and a man with the blood of many Assassins on his hands. Altaïr knows that he must be careful.

He crawls into the vent and begins to climb. It is a hard ascent even by Assassin standards. Altaïr loses all the ground he has gained in his headlong hunt. He is tired and dusty by the time the duct disgorges him into the greyish vault of a false ceiling deep within the skyscraper. His muscles writhe as he spiders across the struts between the polystyrene tiles, moving on spread fingers and the tips of sneakered toes.

He loses another ten minutes quartering the ceiling before he hears a familiar voice. Richard Coeur de Lion's bass rumble is familiar from countless police surveillance recordings.

"What about the police?"

"Fuck the police," Robert de Sable replies.

Richard's reply is inaudible. Perhaps he only shrugs. Altaïr does not waste time listening.

J_usqu'ici tout va bien_. So far, so good.

Altaïr takes a deep breath, trying not to choke on the dust that carpets the tiles. Then he reaches under his hoodie, pulls his gun from its holster and flicks the safety catch on before he crashes through the ceiling in a cloud of dust and polystyrene tiles.

He lands in a crouch on the floor, legs bent and one hand flat on the carpet to break his fall. De Sable and a man who can only be Richard Coeur de Lion spin around; eyes wide in surprise and their hands already reaching towards weapons in long-practised motions. A few of the Les Croisés thugs leaning against the wall of the small room come to sudden attention, but they don't shoot.

Yet.

Altaïr drops his gun on the floor with the safety catch still on. "Wait," he says, holding up his hands. "I'm not here to fight."

Richard smiles. "That is a good thing," he says, drawing his own gun from his belt with his right hand "For you. Don't move."

Altaïr complies. Richard's henchmen train their guns on him with menacing expressions, perhaps hoping to atone for their inability to discover Altaïr in the first place. De Sable's finger is tight on the trigger of his pistol as he points the barrel straight at Altaïr's heart.

Altaïr smiles. He knows that de Sable does not dare cross Richard here in skinhead territory. Nobody here will shoot him unless Richard wills it. "I have never been one to run," he says.

Richard snorts and shoves his gun back into his belt. "You would not make it to the door," he says. He cuts an imposing figure, shirtless and sweating despite the cold, his broad shoulders streaked with tattoos of crosses and snarling lions. "Come from Salah-ad-din to offer surrender, did you? Let's have it."

It's an easy mistake to make, given Altaïr's parentage. He shakes his head. "Don't let my face deceive you. I'm not from Salah-ad-din."

The skinhead leader frowns. "Then who-"

"You misunderstand." Altaïr moves his right hand very slightly, and watches the thugs adjust their aim. "I need to tell you something."

Richard Coeur de Lion nods. "Go on," he says. The Les Croisés leader is the picture of generosity, safe and smiling in his tawdry tower block court, surrounded by minions who would be happy to blow Altaïr's head clean off at the slightest provocation. He can afford to be magnanimous.

Altaïr reaches into the marsupial pocket of his hoodie and withdraws his police badge. The silver emblem flashes in the light of the cheap bare bulbs. There is a collective intake of breath.

"Hah!" shouts Richard Coeur de Lion."So you're one of the général's little soldiers. What are you doing here? You won't take me alive, _flic."_

Altaïr curls his fingers around his badge. "I'm not here for you," he says. "One of your gang is a traitor."

Many men would have dismissed the accusation out of hand, but the Lionheart is smarter and more suspicious than most _banlieusards_. Richard's eyes narrow. His gaze leaves Altaïr and rakes the thugs against the wall, who cringe, lift their chins or stand straighter according to their natures. "Who?"

Altaïr nods at the only man Richard has not laid eyes on. "Him," he says. "De Sable."

"Bullshit," says de Sable curtly.

Richard throws his head back and laughs loudly. "De Sable?" he booms. "De Sable came to me for help against you! Why tell me this after all the havoc your Général has wrought among my men? Some of my best people are behind bars because of you!"

His response is not entirely unexpected. "I did you a favour," says Altaïr.

The Lionheart glares at him, eyes narrowed, mouth a flat line. "I find that hard to believe."

"The men I jailed? They were planning a coup. William de Montferrat planned to take the Acre franchise from you. The task of Garnier de Naplouse was to kill anyone who resisted. Sibrand would use his men to block the tower's doors, preventing your men from retaking the franchise."

Richard shakes his head. "I don't believe you," he says.

The thugs who line the walls whisper and mutter amongst themselves, their guns forgotten. De Sable takes a short, angry step towards Altaïr. "He's a cop," he says. "You know they lie. He'll say anything to prove his case."

Altaïr shrugs. "Why would I come here just to lie?" he says to Richard. "You knew these men. Maybe you can tell me if I speak the truth."

"Why would a _flic_ speak the truth?" snarls de Sable. "We all live outside the law. You divide us and pick us all off one by one because you are too weak to stand against us. Were we to stop our fighting and stand together, you'd be crushed like the cockroaches you are."

"This fighting favours nobody!" Altaïr retorts. "The _banlieue_ would be a better place without it."

De Sable growls.

Richard watches them both, his face unreadable. Altaïr spits his words directly into De Sable's smirking face. "I want them to knock down the walls. I want the _banlieue_ to have a chance at life. But this cannot be when there are men like Naplouse-and Montferrat, and de Sable-within its walls."

"You both accuse each other." Richard says. He does not seem impressed.

"Enough!" De Sable exclaims. He turns to Richard. "Let's kill him. I have no time for this. Salah-ad-din's forces will no doubt strike soon. We must look to the defences, but first let's shoot the cop."

Richard looks from Altaïr to de Sable. Altaïr, who has begun to assess potential escape routes, has thought of three by the time the Les Croisés leader finally speaks. "Wait," he says.

De Sable looks surprised. "Why?"

"Hand me your gun. We'll let fate decide. Let's play a game."

Altaïr does not like the way that this is heading. But de Sable drops his gaze and hands Richard his gun. Richard steps forwards and takes up Altaïr's pistol from the floor. He examines both guns and hands them both to one of his henchmen before he looks up at them both. "I will believe the strongest," he says, and steps back. "Begin."

Altaïr wastes no time. Robert is taller than him, heavier and more familiar with the territory. As the Templar steps forward, he jumps straight up towards the fraying ceiling, wraps his hands around the exposed struts and slams his feet into Robert's chest. He doesn't achieve enough momentum to break de Sable's ribs, but the look upon Robert's face as he stumbles backwards is nearly worth the trade.

De Sable coughs and lunges as Altaïr drops to the ground. De Sable's blow passes neatly over his head.

"Come on, men!" bellows de Sable.

Richard Coeur de Lion laughs.

Altaïr does not. He's too busy dodging the first rush of de Sable's thugs. He slips past the first man to reach him, and the second man's haymaker drops another man instead, but de Sable slams a blow into his ribs from behind, and Altaïr loses a few seconds' advantage to breathlessness. He slips through their hands like water and drops to the floor, scything his legs. One of De Sable's henchmen falls over into another skinhead, who sprawls onto the floor. De Sable tries to take advantage of the confusion by stamping on Altaïr's head. Altaïr grabs his ankle in both hands and twists. De Sable screams as Altaïr climbs to his feet with dust and fragments of polystyrene ceiling clinging to his white hoodie.

De Sable picks up a chair and swings it like a shield. His thugs scatter and Altaïr drops to the floor as the chair legs pass over his head. De Sable breaks the chair across Altaïr's back as an encore. Fragments of wicker seat litter the carpet. The Templar picks up a fragment of chair leg from the floor and holds it like a knife. He drags his left foot slightly. His face is purple with rage as he hisses "I'll kill you."

"Not a chance." Altaïr reaches for a stick.

One of de Sable's henchmen decides to be a hero and vaults across the sofa, arms swinging. Altaïr slams his elbow into the thug's chest and kicks him in the face as he drops, and de Sable misses his hamstrings by the narrowest of margins. The wood rakes Altaïr's calf instead. It's a foolish weapon, but Altaïr has seen men killed by a stick of kindling through the eye-socket. He won't make the mistake of underestimating the Templar.

From the scowl on de Sable's face, he has no intention of underestimating Altaïr. He nods, and his remaining four henchmen leap to attack.

Altaïr takes them out, one by one.

The first man runs right into Altaïr's throat-punch. He staggers back, hands clutching at his neck, while his lips form silent words. The second pushes him away while the third and fourth hang back, shadow boxing at thin air. Altaïr closes with them fast. They're not used to an opponent so close and so they try to push him away. It doesn't work. A quick punch to the solar plexus, a kick to the knees, and a hard blow with the heel of his hand and they've lost. Altaïr steps over their twitching bodies on his way towards de Sable. The Templar's lips are drawn back, exposing his teeth in a feral rictus. The flickering light glistens from the sweat streaked on his bald head.

"I'll end your schemes," says Altaïr as he aims a punch at de Sable's belly, but the Templar turns to one side and Altaïr's foot hits muscle that feels like rock. He staggers but recovers well. De Sable charges, closing. Altaïr steps back quickly, trying to create space, stumbles over the leg of one of Robert de Sable's henchmen and goes down in a cloud of dust and polystyrene chips.

De Sable laughs as he kicks Altaïr in the ribs. "My schemes?" he spits. "Blame your master the Général." He sneers at the look on Altaïr's face. "You arrested nine men. Did you ever wonder why?"

"They were dealers." Altaïr pants. He grasps de Sable's ankle and the Templar staggers, but keeps his footing. The move gains Altaïr just enough time to rise. De Sable's gaze is mocking. He makes no move towards Altaïr. The Assassin wonders why.

"You should know that when one man is killed another rises," says de Sable. "Your général wished to take the trade for himself. And he will." He smiles through his bruises. "With your help."

"Why would he do such a thing? He's the Général."

De Sable's grin widens. "Who cares? But now the only two who know are you and I. Do you think that you'll stay out of prison for long?"

"I don't..."

"Maybe he'll just kill you," says de Sables. He reaches behind him and draws a pistol from under his shirt. "Or maybe I will."

There is nowhere to go. De Sable is an excellent shot, and even a novice would have trouble missing his target at such close range. Unless, that is, he can force de Sable's hand.

He takes a deep breath, vaults the couch, and races towards de Sable. His hand catches de Sable's wrist an instant before the Templar fires. The sound is deafeningly loud. There is the scent of hot metal, a soft gasp, and Robert de Sable falls backwards, the gun still in his hand. Altaïr falls with him. De Sable's blood spatters his face and hands as the Templar convulses, and falls still.

Altaïr takes a deep breath and very nearly chokes on cordite. He looks down at the carpet which is spattered with blood, brains and little chips of bone and up at the Les Croisés thugs. Not one of them has moved. Gunsmoke billows gently in the air as Richard claps his hands.

Altaïr glances up, moving instinctively into a defensive crouch. He wonders if he can use de Sable's body as a bulwark. Richard is smiling.

"Well done," he says.

Altaïr does not need or want congratulations from a man like Richard Coeur de Lion. He nods, still wondering if Robert de Sable lied with his last breath. He does not think so. Robert was a criminal, a psychopath and a murderer several times over, but he did not lie where there was nothing to be gained from it.

Altaïr decides that he will have to speak with Général al Mualim just as the police troops break down the door.

"Don't move!" somebody shouts.

They come in fast with shock and awe tactics borrowed from Special Forces, with smoke grenades and guns and lots of shouting. Altaïr doesn't blame them. Most of the men in the flat are armed. He would have-and _has_-done the same in a similar situation. Shouting and bright lights leave people with little time to think.

A couple of the Les Croisés thugs make it to their guns but they don't get far. Richard Coeur de Lion and one of his men are using the overturned sofa as a barricade. Robert de Sable's gun is within Altaïr's reach. He grabs the weapon, throws it as hard as he can across the room and puts his hands up in the air.

"Police! I am an officer!"

They slam him to the floor anyway. Altaïr has lost his badge, and he isn't about to search through his pockets in front of troops so obviously aggressive and armed. "I am Altair ibn la-Ahad," he says as the sofa leaks stuffing and then blood. "I can explain..."

"Shut up," they say, their faces anonymous beneath smoked plastic visors. Someone pulls out a pair of handcuffs and something clicks into place in Altaïr's head.

_Do you think that you'll stay out of prison for long?_ de Sable had asked him.

He erupts from the floor like it's a pair of starting blocks. The policemen have most of their attention on Richard Coeur de Lion's thugs, and they're unprepared for any resistance from Altaïr.

He uses the bent back of the first man as a springboard and vaults up towards the ceiling, feet hammering at the tiny horizontal panel of glass above the door. The glass shatters and Altaïr vanishes through the gap. He feels shards of glass slash the fabric of his sweatshirt as he dives towards the floor, but he is through, and free, and nearly safe.

There are armed police in the corridor but Altaïr is moving so quickly that they don't have time to stop him. He dives from the nearest window and drops onto the balcony below as more policemen come crashing through the door behind him. And then he's running, sliding down the ducts so fast his clothes tear, leaping from window to balcony to flat roof with the speed of a falcon, lost for a moment in the quiet of his fall before he rolls of the gravel and jumps up to run again, the soles of his sneakers hammering faster than the rapid adrenaline fuelled beat of his heart.

He heads for the one place he has any hope of reaching before they catch up with him; the tower block called Jérusalem and the one person in the _banlieue_ who might believe his tale.

He runs down alleys where the sodium glow of street lights burn more brightly than the stars, feet splashing through half-frozen puddles as he races past.

Altaïr hopes to hell Malik hasn't taken his advice and gone to walk among the people of the banlieue as he runs down the narrow streets and turns into a tiny _magasin de quartier_ barely ten feet square, shelves up to the ceiling filled with packets.

Malik looks up as he slams through the door, his hand reaching under the counter for the gun duct-taped to the laminate before he realises who it is.

"_Salut_, Alt-"

Altaïr does not waste words. "Malik! They're after me! Hide me."

Malik doesn't hesitate. He throws up the hinged piece of countertop that separates his domain from the rest of the tiny shop. "Follow me," he calls, hustling Altaïr through a beaded curtain into a dim room that Altaïr only has the chance to appreciate for a second before Malik slams open the back door and beckons him out into the dark, freezing cold. A metal dumpster stands head-high beside the small flight of steps that leads down to the concrete below. Malik opens the lid and Altaïr vaults into the stinking darkness.

He lands on the gently concave surface with hardly a sound and hears Malik's quick footsteps climb back up the stairs before the shop's back door closes. The echoes die away.

Altaïr draws his knees close to his chest as the adrenaline ebbs slowly from his body, leaving him shivering and hungry. The dumpster smells like charred plastic, like it's been used to burn rubbish. He reaches out to run his hand across the sides of the dumpster and touches soft, slightly furry ash.

He wonders whether he should have told Malik that it was the cops that were after him, but he will know soon enough. He hopes that Malik's loyalty will buy him space to catch a breath or two. Altaïr's life, or at least his freedom, rests in Malik's one remaining hand.

He hears the growl of engines as cars pull up outside the shop with a screech of tyres. Doors slam and hard-soled shoes mark time on the pavement. He hears voices, and then the doors slam again, and the cars pull away. A helicopter beats its rotors overhead, and then silence.

Altaïr waits in the cold blackness.

After a while he hears the door at the back of the shop open again. It's been long enough that Altaïr's eyes have adjusted to the light and so he can see the scowl on Malik's face.

"Get out of there."

He hauls Altaïr from the dumpster with one hand, using the hood of his sweatshirt like a handle, and nearly flings him up the steps into the back room of the shop. Altaïr has waited here a dozen times and it is always the same; small and dimly lit by the dual light of a small wood burning stove and the flickering images of a tiny TV set that shows a loop of programs set in places that most of the _banlieusards_ have never seen. Altaïr has always wondered how the room manages to be stuffy as well as barely warmer than the freezing air outside.

Malik slams the door behind them and shoots the bolt across. They stare at each other in the flickering light of the screen. Malik's scowl deepens.

"I was framed," Altaïr says.

"Well, you would say that, wouldn't you?" Malik snaps. He picks up a piece of wood from the carpet that reads _la magasin est ferme_ in French. Arabic and Sudanese. "Help me lock up," he says and vanishes through the beaded curtain.

Altaïr follows. He hangs the sign in the shop's grimy window as Malik wrestles with the steel shutter. Altaïr knows better than to offer to help; even though Malik has asked him for assistance, Altaïr's job extends to placing the sign in the window, no more.

"You're going to help me," he says as Malik snaps the padlock into place. "Otherwise you would have handed me over to the police.

"I am still considering my options," Malik says. "Why were they after you?"

"I don't know."

"Right, supercop. You don't know anything. "

"We're on the same side, Malik."

"Keep your voice down." Malik bangs his hand on the counter. A cardboard display of crisp packets collapses. Altaïr bends down and scoops plastic packets into a box as Malik says "Be quiet. The walls are thin here. Sound carries."

They walk back through the curtain to the office. "Sit down," says Malik, biting off the words as if even this small gesture of hospitality hurts him.

Altaïr sits.

"_Alf mabruk_, Altaïr. Congratulations. I had thought you stupid before-They told me that you betrayed the Général.

"I didn't. He framed me."

"So you say..." Malik opens the door of the stove and shoves a handful of sticks into the flames with more than usual vehemence. "Why'd you come here? I don't even like you."

"I'm right." Altaïr says simply.

Malik sighs. "I know." He closes the door of the stove with a slam and the temperature drops another few degrees.

"How?"

"It's only common sense. You'd have to kill them, and all their henchmen, and get rid of whatever stuff they're trying to deal as well. Cut out the drugs, and they'll move into whoring or gambling or theft. It can't be done without convincing people they don't need them in the first place." He sighs again. "But it's said that significance comes not from a single act."

"That sounds like the Old Man," Altaïr says.

"It is."

"He said I knew too much."

"I find that hard to believe," Malik says. "But I've wondered about the général for some while. He's been using you to cut out the competition, of course. Moving in himself. It's a risk, but it should be worth his while."

"You sound like you admire him."

"I don't. It's foolish-and immoral." Malik turns to Altaïr and looks him in the eye for the first time since he shoved him in the dumpster. "What are you going to do about it?"

Altaïr does not realise he is going to speak the words until they have left his mouth. "I'm going to confront him. It's up to me to do what's right."

"It's up to us," Malik says. "Idiot."

Altaïr's grin is more of a baring of teeth than a smile. "The général's betrayed us. We should return the favour."

"He has many men," says Malik, "and all of them have guns."

"That doesn't bother me. I have a gun."

"One gun? It should." Malik sighs. "You will need help."

"I have the other Assassins-I will find backup." He recalls the anonymous faces of the soldiers behind their dark visors. "Somewhere."

"_T'inquiète, je gère_. I'm coming with you. _My_ men remain my own. We'll cause a scene to cover you. I'll do what I can."

"It's all I ask."

Malik clicks his tongue. "Then let us go."

The streets outside are dark and quiet. The snow has stopped. Altaïr's sneakers crunch on two inches of snow. He starts to run, feeling the cold air whip at the hood of his sweatshirt as Malik picks up speed beside him.

They run together, and never look back.

_Fin._

_Author's note: I don't own Assassin's Creed, District 13 or their assorted sequels, and I don't speak French. Enjoy the inaccurately-translated fruits of my labours, rewatch the movies, replay the game, and try to figure out whether David Belle really is allergic to shirts..._


End file.
